


Comfort and Despair

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Burdens of Responsibility [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Crack, First Time, M/M, With Feelings?, pre-RoL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: In which an attempt is made to explain the attitude of DCI Alexander Seawoll towards DCI Thomas Nightingale at the opening of Rivers of London.





	Comfort and Despair

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a tumblr prompt by ShadowValkyrie as to what could lie behind Seawoll being *so* pissed off with Nightingale at the beginning of RoL.  
Thanks to PerchingOwl for beta skillz. All remaining errors and lapses of judgement mine.  
Title taken from Shakespeare's 144th sonnet.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. What are _you_ doing in _here_?’

Nightingale’s shoulders tensed as the thunder of Seawoll’s greeting, such as it was, rumbled over him.

Nightingale sighed and, without looking round, said, more peevishly than he’d perhaps intended, ‘I would have thought, Inspector, that it was perfectly obvious what I am doing. I am a policeman, I have come to the end of an extremely trying day and, consequently, I have come in here to have a drink before I go home.’

It was three weeks before Christmas, and Nightingale had already been sent on a wild goose chase to Waltham Abbey that day, to deal with what turned out to be a resolutely non-magical breach of the peace, before being summoned to yet another late meeting with the Assistant Commissioner at New Scotland Yard, to “discuss” the current role of the Folly, and the effectiveness/integration thereof within the Metropolitan Police Service; a meeting that could not be said to have been satisfactory for either party.

Nightingale had elected to soothe his ruffled feathers in a pub within walking distance, but not close enough to be a haunt of other policemen, before returning to Russell Square. He had missed dinner, but Molly would no doubt have left something out in the kitchen for him.

Despite being so close to Christmas the pub was relatively quiet. It was used mainly by office workers in the area, and the post-work drinking crowd had long moved on, with the exception of what looked like the determined remnants of a Christmas lunch at the other end of the bar. All Nightingale had wanted was a quiet half-hour to compose himself. And now here was Seawoll and another blasted thing to deal with before this day was over.

Nightingale had half expected Seawoll to turn on his heel and walk out of the pub again in disgust, but he must have been in even greater need of a drink, and Nightingale was surprised to hear his heavy footsteps cross to the bar and engage the attention of the barmaid. Nightingale took several gulps of his pint in quick succession, the sooner to be able to leave without the suggestion of being driven from the field. Ordinarily, he didn’t mind sparring with Seawoll, no matter how unpleasant his insinuations could get, but after the day that he had had, he simply did not have the stomach for another contretemps.

So he was even more surprised when Seawoll rounded the table at which he was sitting, put one pint in front of an empty chair, and another in front of Nightingale. He pulled out the chair and sat down heavily in it.

Nightingale looked at the drink and then at Seawoll. He raised an eyebrow; he couldn’t help himself.

‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too excited,’ said Seawoll. ‘Let’s just call it Christmas, season of goodwill and all that?’

‘Very well,’ said Nightingale. ‘Bad day?’

‘You could say that,’ said Seawoll. ‘I take it you’ve been dragged over the coals as well, if you’re drinking in here?’

‘No more than usual. And all to the same tune.’ Nightingale forbore to add that it was probably Seawoll’s song as well.

‘And you?’ continued Nightingale.

Whatever anger Seawoll had brought in with him was ebbing, as he took a long pull of his pint, but still.

‘Oh, something of nothing most likely, but it’s still fucking annoying. They’re hammering me on clear-up rates, while pulling people on the ground, and in civilian support. At the same time, I have this ongoing fucking issue with the Camden lot to deal with, and now there are even more fucking hoops to jump through to implement and maintain standards on gender diversity and community engagement.’ He sighed and looked at Nightingale narrowly. ‘Not something you have to worry about, I imagine.’

‘Well, no,’ conceded Nightingale. ‘But, if I may, you do seem generally very light on your feet, bureaucratically-speaking.’

‘Bureaucratically-speaking?!’ spluttered Seawoll. ‘You should see me fucking foxtrot.’

He chuckled, but then sobered again.

‘And then there’s fucking Folsom-‘ he said.

‘The man’s a bigot,’ cut in Nightingale sharply. ‘Every time I am obliged to deal with him makes it increasingly evident. All the more so because, whatever he thinks about the Folly, he considers me “one of the right sort”.’

‘Aye?’

‘Yes. He insists on the importance of “dragging the Folly into the modern world” and “bringing in new blood”’ said Nightingale, the airquotes evident without gesture. ‘I should like to see his face if that new blood wasn’t white and privately educated. I do believe that he considers those the only qualifications I have, or indeed, require.’

‘He tried to pull that shit with me, when I brought Guleed onto the team.’

‘Guleed?’ This wasn’t someone that Nightingale had come across.

‘One of my new DCs,’ said Seawoll, ‘and the makings of a brilliant copper. Somali,’ he added.

‘Ah,’ said Nightingale.

‘Wears a hijab.’

‘_Ah_.’

Seawoll took a deep breath and blew it out loudly. ‘So, it’s just one more fucking battle on one more fucking front that I’ve got to deal with. Along with everything else. And all this with the DPS breathing down my neck after the thing at Southwark Cathedral earlier in the year’

‘You have my sympathies, Inspector. I at least have never had the DPS to deal with.’

‘Alex.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My name is Alex.’

‘Ah, quite. Thomas.’

‘Not Tom? Tommy?’

‘No.’

‘Fair enough.’

*

They continued discussing police business, the travails of being a DCI in the current Met, whether or not one had a team to manage, and the advantages and shortcomings – though primarily the shortcomings - of those in charge. During the course of which, it had been Nightingale’s turn to buy the next round. The discussion had devolved to whether it was better to be higher profile, with more resources, or to fly under the radar with no support. Seawoll contended he had a much greater burden to bear as the former.

‘But surely, _Alex_,’ Nightingale said, ‘Notwithstanding all of that, and unlike myself, surely you remain one of the most respected and formidable officers in the Met. That must count for something.’ Nightingale managed to keep a straight face, but his grey eyes were alight with laughter.

‘Hmph,’ said Seawoll, who hadn’t failed to notice, ‘Yeah, well, fuck you.’ He raised his glass anyway, ‘And cheers.’ Nightingale clinked, and they both drained what was left in their glasses.

Under any other circumstances, but really, Nightingale couldn’t have anticipated exactly what those circumstances would have been, where he and Seawoll – Alex - would be chatting like this, Nightingale would have suggested another drink as a matter of course; last orders was yet to be called. They were conversing amicably, of all things, and as colleagues and equals, something that Nightingale was happy to admit that he missed dreadfully. But he also had the oddest feeling that there was something else going on, something underlying this conversation that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It wasn’t anything he could readily identify and so he decided that, whatever it was, it was probably best left for now.

Nightingale suddenly realised he’d been silent for some moments while dwelling on this, but, looking swiftly at Seawoll, saw that he was similarly preoccupied with something.

‘Time to head back, I think,’ said Nightingale.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Seawoll had been frowning over something but his attention now snapped back to Nightingale. ‘Probably best to get a decent night’s sleep and.. gird my loins for the morrow. Isn’t that what you’d say?’

Nightingale grinned. ‘Not quite, no.’

They both stood, gathered up coats and left the pub. They paused outside, facing each other, putting on gloves.

‘So, unless anything untoward happens, I’ll probably see you at the Monday briefing?’

‘That’s right.’ Seawoll took a deep breath, and Nightingale thought that perhaps he must be more tired than he seemed, but he didn’t make any move to leave and Nightingale, unsure how to read the situation, or what to do next, let the moment stretch out.

Suddenly, the doors of the pub clattered open behind them and the inebriated remains of the office party tumbled out, looking for the next venue, unwilling to let the night end. In doing so, they jostled Nightingale, who stumbled against Seawoll. Neither of them made to move apart as the group moved on down the street shouting and laughing.

The moment stretched further, as Nightingale stood close to Seawoll, one hand still on his arm where he had grabbed it to stop himself from falling. This close he could smell the Chanel aftershave he wore. Seawoll had four or five inches on Nightingale and so he couldn’t see the taller man’s expression, but still neither of them moved. Nightingale began to feel his heart beat a little bit faster.

‘Fuck it.’ Nightingale felt rather than heard the words as Seawoll’s hands came to rest on his shoulders. They remained like that for a second or so, perhaps longer, until shouts from further down the street, from another group of pre-Christmas revellers, could be heard, which jolted Nightingale into action.

‘We can’t…’ said Nightingale, but, before he could finish the sentence, Seawoll removed his hands as if they’d been burned, and took half a step back. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear it.

‘No. What? Yeah, I mean…’ and he ground to a halt.

Nightingale took his life in his hands, professionally speaking at least, and said ‘I mean…if… What I meant is… we can’t do anything here.’

The words were out and couldn’t be unsaid. He looked straight at Seawoll then, in time to see the tension drain from his face. And then, to Nightingale’s amazement, he grinned.

‘Fair dos,’ he said and, with a quick look round, he grabbed Nightingale and pulled him into the shadowed doorway between the pub and the newsagent next door.

Seawoll’s kiss was tentative at first, which – if Nightingale had ever thought about it – and which he emphatically had not – was to be expected. If he _had_ thought about it, Nightingale would have expected a quick progression through heat to panting desire, almost to get it over with, but this turned out not to be the case.

Seawoll – and Nightingale was aware throughout that, although the street was quiet as the pub had virtually emptied and the offices and shops long closed, anyone might have walked past and seen them, which would have been a much greater problem for Seawoll than for him – bent his head and kissed him carefully, thoughtfully. And Nightingale kissed him back.

As Nightingale placed his hands at Seawoll’s waist, he dimly recalled that this was neither appropriate, nor really the correct thing for colleagues to be doing. But it had been so many years, so many _decades_ since he had felt the warmth of a body against his, let alone a strong, solid body such as this. And Nightingale had operated on his own cognisance within the Met for so long, feared and distrusted, that he was able to convince himself that this could be the work of an isolated moment, or so he argued to himself, with no necessary repercussions.

After some moments, and all too soon, they broke apart and ‘Fuck. Ok,' Seawoll breathed. One of his hands was in Nightingale’s hair and the other at the small of his back. And Nightingale decided to hell with this, to hell with appropriate measures: here was someone who wanted him. Now, and for whatever reason. (And really, at that point, Nightingale couldn’t be said to care about the reason.)

So –

‘Would you like to come back to the Folly?’

Seawoll snorted, his whole body jerking.

‘Come back to your nick? Are you _insane_?’

‘Well it’s not in the usual way of things, I’ll admit, but it’s large and there’s no one else there. Well, there is a sort of live-in help, actually, so… there’s the coach house. Perhaps that would be best.’

‘What?’

‘The coach house. To the Folly. It’s at the back. Above the garage, I suppose.’

‘Excuse me? Are you actually suggesting taking me back to your house via the _tradesmen’s entrance_?’

Nightingale noted the outrage in the words, but also heard the amusement behind them.

By this point, Seawoll had clearly begun to have a better idea of his surroundings and straightened up, dropping his hands.

Nightingale did the same.

‘I think, on balance-‘

‘Ah yes, of course-‘ They interrupted one another.

‘Oh fuck it,’ said Seawoll again and grabbed Nightingale's arm to start walking. ‘Russell Square, isn’t it?’

*

They had caught a taxi surprisingly easily from Victoria Street, and then endured an awkward ride northwards, up Whitehall, around Trafalgar Square and up St Martins Lane, each sitting stiffly and unspeaking at either end of the cab’s wide back seat, at the conclusion of which Nightingale was sure Seawoll would wave him out and carry on to his own home.

But he did not, and they got out, paid, and walked resolutely together towards the Folly.

Nightingale realised he didn’t know anything about Seawoll’s personal life, had never needed to. He knew he was unmarried – various early morning starts had elicited the fact, at one or other of them, that there was no wife left keeping the marital bed warm. And he had always thought in terms of a wife for Seawoll. And yet here he was, striding along beside him, and looking around with interest at the houses on each side of the square.

‘Nice work if you can get it,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, what?’ Nightingale was increasingly preoccupied with what was actually happening, and how he was going to play the situation when they reached their destination.

‘Here. This place. I’ve seen much worse places for a nick. And just you in all of this? No scrounging for desk space or somewhere to put your constables.’

‘No, indeed. But I don’t have any constables at present.’ Or ever, Nightingale doesn’t need to add.

‘No, well, because of the-‘ but Seawoll didn’t seem inclined to pursue it, and Nightingale was glad of it.

They’d reached the Folly by now and Nightingale guided them past the main entrance and around the side into the courtyard.

‘As I say, there is one other person here,’ said Nightingale. ‘She lives in and looks after the place. She’s something of a light sleeper and I wouldn’t want her disturbed. Which is why…’

For some reason, it’s important that Seawoll doesn’t feel that he’s being banished or excluded from the main house. Nightingale realises also that he’s starting to babble when he sees Seawoll grin at him. It really was quite enchanting.

‘Well come on then, lead on. We’re not getting any younger-‘ said Seawoll, and then broke off looking, for him, abashed. At which point Nightingale caught his eye and they both burst into laughter.

‘Shh. We don’t want to disturb Molly.’

‘Molly? Who-?‘

‘Never mind,’ said Nightingale and indicated the ironwork spiral staircase running up the exterior of the building.

Seawoll ascended first and then stood to one side while Nightingale wrestled with the very rusty lock, resisting the urge to use magic on it. The door finally swung open and he became very aware that Seawoll was standing very close to him, and Nightingale's heart started beating erratically again.

‘There’s no weird bollocks in here is there?’ said Seawoll, suddenly serious.

Nightingale’s thoughts darted quickly to Molly, and what Seawoll might make of her, but said ‘No, not in here’ and stepped in. Seawoll hesitated momentarily then followed and closed the door behind them.

Nightingale had no idea if the coach house had ever even been fitted with electricity, let alone whether there was a light. He recalled that it had been used before the war primarily as an artist’s studio, given the partially glazed roof, now filthy with disuse. After a few moments groping the walls looking fruitlessly for a lightswitch, Nightingale gave up the search and fixed a low-level werelight to the far wall, in the hope that Seawoll wouldn’t notice the difference. If he did, he gave no sign.

‘So, this is your wank palace then, is it?’ said Seawoll, eyeing the interior of the coach house dubiously, and noticing a portrait of a reclining nude propped against the wall.

‘Hardly,’ said Nightingale. ‘But the, er, cleaner does at least never venture this far. As you can see.’

Seawoll didn’t answer, and the silence between them lengthened. This is the moment, thought Nightingale, when the other man would say something about this being a mistake, about being tired, about having had too much to drink, too stressful a day, about impaired judgement. But Seawoll said none of these things, and as the silence lasted, Nightingale could not find the courage, the courage that had never failed him before the war, nor during, now that they were standing here together in this room, to turn and face him.

‘Well then,’ came the voice behind him, and he heard Seawoll take off his gloves and coat, and, after a moment’s hesitation, drop them on the floor because there was nowhere else to put them. He then felt hands, unbearably tender, ease his own coat off his shoulders and dispose of it in the same way. For whatever reason, Nightingale could not move until he felt the same hands on his shoulders once more, turning him around gently. In the dim light, Seawoll cupped Nightingale’s face in his hands and kissed him.

This time there was intent behind the kiss and the werelight in the background flickered. Seawoll’s kiss, which had earlier been exploratory now deepened quickly. He traced a pattern along Nightingale’s lower lip, making him gasp, before their tongues met and they found a rhythm. Nightingale felt himself begin to harden and pulled Seawoll closer, dragging the shirt out of his waistband so he could run his palms along the flat planes of Seawoll’s back, and Seawoll shivered at both the touch and the cool air of the coach house.

Nightingale broke the kiss and began to mouth along the line of Seawoll’s jaw, nipping gently at him with his teeth and feeling the rasp of stubble beneath his lips. Seawoll kept his right hand behind Nightingale’s head, but let his left drop to Nightingale’s backside, urging, pulling him closer in. Nightingale could feel Seawoll hard against his abdomen and he ground himself against Seawoll’s thigh and heard him groan against his ear.

‘You’re a dangerous man, Thomas Nightingale,’ he murmured, and Nightingale chuckled delightedly. How long had it been?

They stayed like this for some moments longer, grinding and swaying, until the momentum threatened to topple them.

Seawoll pulled away first, breathing hard, ‘I don’t know about you, but I need some support here.’

‘As you wish,’ said Nightingale, also breathless, and taking a quick inventory of the room and a moment to steady himself, stepped back and muttered a few words under his breath. In doing so, one of the furred dustsheets which covered the largest item in the room, rose into the air, and dropped to the ground behind, carefully folding in on itself so that none of the dust escaped with the movement.

‘Did you just..?’ said Seawoll, whose eyes, previously hooded with desire had now widened.

Nightingale stepped back into his personal space ‘Tell me: right now, do you care?’ he asked.

Seawoll answered by covering Nightingale’s mouth with his own again and pushing him back onto the chaise longue now revealed.

*

The chaise longue had perhaps been designed for a single waif-like model to recline on artistically. It had not been designed to accommodate two adult males, one six feet tall, and another taller still. Yet some time later, they managed, by some miracle, to lie on it together, breathing still ragged and sweat rapidly cooling on their skin in the winter air of the coach house. Nightingale moved first, gingerly, levering to extract a handkerchief from his pocket with which to attempt to clean them both up. Having done so, and for the want of any immediately feasible alternative, he lay back again in the crook of Seawoll’s arm and, with the waves of euphoria from an unexpected orgasm receding, wondered what would happen next.

What it seemed would happen next was that Seawoll shifted his weight so that he was lying on his side, pulled Nightingale towards him, so he was less perilously close to falling off the edge of the thing, and kissed him gently on the temple. They were still, mostly, fully clothed, but there was no heating in the coach house, so Nightingale quietly arranged for his greatcoat to move to cover both of them, absent anything else in the way of blankets.

‘I didn’t see you do that,’ said Seawoll sleepily in his ear.

‘By no means,’ he replied. And there they stayed.

Nightingale didn’t think he would be able to sleep in such a position, but the various exertions of the day got the better of him, and he heard Seawoll’s breathing even out to become more regular before drifting off himself.

*

It was only a few hours later, and the sky had not yet begun to lighten beyond the dirty panes of the glass roof, when Nightingale was awoken by Seawoll moving slightly.

‘Sorry, but no way not to wake you. I only meant to close my eyes for twenty minutes, but it’s almost three now and I have to get home and shower and be back out to Heathrow by six to relieve Miriam.’

‘Of course.’ Nightingale stood and allowed Seawoll to rise from the chaise longue also. The werelight had gone hours ago, at some point, unnoticed by them both, and as they stood, flexing and working out the cricks from a few hours’ cramped sleeping, Nightingale didn’t dare fix another one.

‘So.’

‘So-‘

‘I’m sorry about the state of the sleeping arrangements,’ Nightingale had no idea what he was saying. ‘I hope it didn’t inconvenience you too much.’

‘Inconvenience me?’ Seawoll sounded incredulous.

‘Yes, well, these things happen sometimes, don’t they? Almost by accident? From time to time. Can’t be helped, I suppose. But don’t necessarily mean anything…’ he trailed off.

Nightingale heard how the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to phrase it in quite that way. He wanted to recall the words or at least explain them, but, really, was there any point? They’d seemed to have reached some sort of truce last night - more - but, for a myriad reasons, it couldn’t go any further than that. Nightingale has an instinctive revulsion about the idea of furtive meetings. There was quite enough of that in the old days, and it wasn’t supposed to be like that anymore. But he couldn’t see any other way that it could be, for them.

Perhaps he had meant to say it like that after all.

Seawoll was facing away from him as he thought all this, and Nightingale couldn’t see his face. But he could see that the broad shoulders tensed in the dim light that filtered into the room, and that Seawoll hesitated briefly, while in the act of putting on his jacket. Then he carried on, and picked up his overcoat and gloves from where they had been abandoned on the floor some hours previously.

‘Right, well. Least said, soonest mended then.’ And he was out of the coach house door and down the spiral staircase before Nightingale could say anything further.

Nightingale frowned, and then began tidying the mess they had made, lest Molly should take it into her head to come in.

*

After that night, Nightingale and Seawoll didn’t cross paths for some weeks. Nightingale had no reason to visit Belgravia – the Christmas-related crimes were generally all depressingly domestic – or at least none that he couldn’t get around, so he did not. Instead he skulked at the Folly, getting in Molly’s way, until the new year called with a violent murder in Covent Garden.


End file.
